Night Ray

 Most brightly of all burned the hair of my evening loved one:
to her I send the coffin of lightest wood.

Waves billow round it as round the bed of our dream in Rome;
it wears a white wig as I do and speaks hoarsely:
it talks as I do when I grant admittance to hearts.

It knows a French song about love, I sang it in autumn
when I stopped as a tourist in Lateland and wrote my letters
 to morning.


A fine boat is that coffin carved in the coppice of feelings.

I too drift in it downbloodstream, younger still than your eye.

Now you are young as a bird dropped dead in March snow,
now it comes to you, sings you its love song from France.

You are light: you will sleep through my spring till it's over.

I am lighter:
in front of strangers I sing.

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